Cole was leaning forward, his hand on my foot. He straightened when our eyes met. “Summer,” he said quietly—a stupid thing to say as we were looking right at each other.
“Why are you in my bedroom?” I had to look down, just to see if… oh God. I was only wearing underwear and a wife beater. I looked back at Cole, and he was staring, his eyes following the path mine just took, his jaw tightening, one finger twitching against the top of his hip.
“You didn’t answer your door, your front door was unlocked, and your phone line is busy.” He clipped out the sentences without looking at my face, his eyes still on my body, and I shifted a little on the bed when I realized that the front of his loose shorts was tenting. Tenting. I hadn’t been touched, hadn’t been kissed—other than that kitchen disaster—in three years, and this man, this sex god who’d had Nadia Smith, was aroused by me. My inner mention of his wife shut down my sex drive, and I rolled over, trying to block out the image of the arousal on his face, the push against his pants, the roll over preventing my legs from opening up for him. And holy crap, I’d been about to do that. Invite Cole Masten, my costar, into my bed. I reached out for a sheet, something to cover me up because my butt was now right there in front of his eyes. My hands found nothing, and I stopped moving, stopped breathing because I could hear his breath, hard and loud in the room, and ohmyword it was sexy. The bed sank beside my right knee, then beside my left, and I felt the brush of soft fabric against the bottom of my feet—his shorts—and it was so erotic I almost moaned.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, a set of fingertips moving slowly, from my right knee up, along the side of my thigh and drifting gently over the curve of my butt.
“Shh…” he whispered. “For once, Summer. Just shut up.”
I didn’t respond because his hand fully settled on my skin, sliding under my cotton panties, and palming my bare skin, squeezing the flesh so hard that I gasped, my shoulders lifting, his other hand pushing, holding me back down.
“Don’t move. Don’t think. Please. I need this.”
“Nadia,” I gasped out her name, my only protest, and his hand instantly stilled on my ass.
“Summer.” He leaned forward, the change in position pushing his pelvis, his hard-on, against my feet, his hand harder on my butt, and his breath was suddenly hot on the nape of my neck as he softly spoke. “If I never hear that name again, I will die happy. There is nothing about her that needs to be in this moment.”
“But—” My protest died when his lips settled on the back of my neck, his teeth following up the kiss with a scrape against my skin.
“For the love of God, Summer. If you want me to stop you need to tell me right now.”
Tell him to stop? I couldn’t. He ground his hips and my feet lifted, apart from my brain, and brushed against one large, hard item. “Yes…” he hissed, sitting back, his mouth leaving my neck, his hand running slowly down my back. The other slid from my thigh up, underneath my panties, both of them palming my ass. The man appeared to have all of the time in the world, and I swallowed a moan as he squeezed, rolling his hands up and out, in small circles, the place between my legs affected by the movement, the cotton of my panties pulled tight by his big hands, the friction just one more piece in the unraveling of my sanity in this moment.
How would I ever recover from this? How would any man ever be able to compete?
He spoke, his words gruff and barely controlled, and I lost all reason with the next words out of his mouth.
“Summer, what will happen when my hands move lower? When I slide my fingers in between your legs?” I felt the pressure as one of his hands moved, teased me, fingers sliding over my ass and almost lower, almost there. I hoped his question wasn’t a literal one because I couldn’t form words, or thoughts, or anything right then. “I’m about to find out exactly how much you’ve been wanting my cock.” He growled the last word, and I almost bucked under his touch, my need burning, crying out, my legs scrabbling underneath him, crawling up the bed, a feral desire deep inside me wanting to be on all fours, my butt in the air, ready for him, frantic for him.
“No,” he said, holding me down, his knees tight against me as he held me in place, prevented my climb, one hard finger sliding back down the crack of my ass and further, in between my legs, and he swore in the silent room, my low groan joining his curse. “Do you get this wet for all of these country boys?” His fingers played with the soaked material between my legs, my thighs fighting to part, and he gave me a little room, my knees urgent in their spread, my feet clamping around his arousal, and he groaned, the sound deep and needy, pouring fuel on my need and pushing it further, more intense, my initial shock at how hard he was replaced with a constant hammering in my brain to have it now, right now, because I swore I would die without it.
He didn’t push aside my panties; he didn’t rip them off; he just moved, with slow and patient strokes, from my ass to my taint, back and forth, and I pushed my hips higher in the air, my face buried against my fitted sheet, any composure lost as I begged him to go lower, begged him for more.
“Jesus, Summer, I want to taste you so badly,” he whispered, his head dropping, his teeth softly biting into my left butt cheek. “I want to flip you over and bury my face in between your legs and fuck you with my mouth. I want to make you scream my name and come underneath my mouth and taste the moment you fall apart for me.”